The Sound of Silence
by mcclanahansbackhand
Summary: Mark Pavelich struggles to find his niche on the 1980 US Olympic Hockey Team. While attempting to overcome his past, an unlikely source introduces him to a form of coping more powerful than words. Oneshot featuring Mark Pavelich and Jim Craig.


_Hello darkness, my old friend_

 _I've come to talk with you again_

 _Because a vision softly creeping_

 _Left its seeds while I was sleeping_

 _And the vision that was planted in my brain_

 _Still remains_

 _Within the sound of silence_

 **October 30, 1979**

After the US defeated the Flint Generals in a whopping 15-0 victory, the media following the game was nothing short of crazy. However, the media usually called out the 'big' names: Johnson, Craig, McClanahan, O'Callahan, and Eruzione; which was why Mark was surprised when he'd taken one step out the arena door and heard "Pavelich!".

Now, he was darting to the team's bus like a frantic mouse running from a cat. Some of his teammates loved the spotlight, Eruzione and Craig seemed to never get enough. Then, there were guys like Johnson and McClanahan, who enjoyed treating interviews like a competition of providing the most complex and descriptive answers to questions. But Mark had despised the flash of a camera and crackle of a microphone for as long as he could remember.

Scrambling around teammates already giving interviews, Mark had thought that he was homefree when a reporter stopped him dead in his tracks with a camera light that made him feel like a deer in headlights. "Pavelich, can you explain to me what was running through your mind when you completed a hattrick tonight?"

Freezing up, Mark had spotted the closest person, which happened to be Rob McClanahan, walking toward the bus. Grabbing the Minnesotan's arm and thrusting him into the spotlight, he whispered, "Help. Me."

Glancing at Mark, he began rambling on about the premier quality of the Flint Generals's Arena's ice and how the Bloomington Ice Arena should be on the same level of standard. Blocking the reporter from getting to Mark, he began a list of complaints about how the olympic team should be better funded. Seizing the golden opportunity, Mark sprang for the team bus. Dashing up the bus's steps, he knocked into John Harrington.

"Easy there, buddy. You're safe from the evil camera monsters now. You know, you should be thankful that they even want to talk to you. Nobody ever asks for Harrington."

Chuckling, Dave Silk spoke up, "That's because you suck."

"Well, you swallow, Silky," John spat back, causing the inhabitants of the bus to burst into laughter.

As the two got caught up arguing, Mark scurried to the back of the bus, where he settled himself and took out his guitar. Strumming on the strings, he awaited for his teammates' usual song requests.

As the remaining boys piled onto the bus, Dave Christian called out, "Hey Pav, can you play some Bob Dylan?"

"Aw, he did that yesterday!" Jack O'Callahan complained. "Do some Simon and Garfunkel, Pav."

"Sing Homeward Bound," Rob suggested, turning around from the seat in front of Mark. "Because I can't wait to get out of this hell-hole."

"I'm sorry, but weren't you just ranting to a reporter about how nice this arena was?" Mark Johnson questioned from the seat next to Rob.

"It's called theatrics. And for that reason Pav should adhere to my request," Rob spat.

With that, Mark began strumming his guitar to the methodical melody that was "Homeward Bound."

 _"I'm sitting in a railway station, got a ticket for my destination._  
 _Mmhm._  
 _On a tour of one night stands, my suitcase and guitar in hand._  
 _And every stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one man band._  
 _Homeward Bound. I wish I was._  
 _Homeward Bound._  
 _Home, where my thought's escaping;_  
 _Home, where my music's playing;_  
 _Home, where my love lies waiting silently for me."_

It was 11:00P.M., and most of the team had drifted off during the hour long bus ride to the airport. But Mark could not sleep, nor had he desired to. The quiet of the night was something that he had always admired. It was intriguing and satisfying, observing the street lights and empty roads. Sometimes, he felt as if time slowed down. Everything seemed to contain a more precious quality in the darkness of the night. He presumed that the foremost reason he valued the late nights over all else was that the normal hustle-and-bustle of busy streets were almost completely abandoned. Perhaps the vacancy was even relaxing for him. Perhaps it became an alternative reality, taking him away from the one thing that weighed him down the most: guilt.

 _In restless dreams I walked alone_

 _Narrow streets of cobblestone_

 _'Neath the halo of a street lamp_

 _I turned my collar to the cold and damp_

 _When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light_

 _That split the night_

 _And touched the sound of silence_

"Alright boys, wakey-wakey," Craig Patrick called out in a voice too chipper for midnight. "We're at the airport."

As everyone exited the vehicle at a turtle's pace, Mark found himself fascinated by the lights of airplanes taking off on the runway.

"Come on, Pav, hurry up!" Buzz Schneider called out, shaking Mark from his day -night- dreaming. Running to catch up with the group, he couldn't help but sink himself back into his faults. It was his reality after all, not just a bad dream. Although, everyday he woke up hoping that it was just that- a bad dream. He supposed that that had been the day he had lost his voice. He grieved over losing his best friend everyday, and knowing his impact was unintentional did nothing for the matter. Mark had yet to find someone who could empathize with him.

It was now 1:00A.M., and majority of the team was sprawled out across the airport benches in a massive slumber. Yet, Mark could not have been more awake. Watching the airplanes methodically takeoff down the runway through smudgy glass, he could not understand how he could be so fascinated, yet so terrified. Unbeknownst to the rest of the team, except maybe John Harrington, Mark was deftly afraid of flying; it made him often question if his grunt work equated the potential glory considering the entire Olympic journey would consist of constant traveling: cars, buses, trains, and planes.

"Isn't that amazing?" A voice crept behind Mark.

Turning his head, he was face to face with Jim Craig, the team's goaltender. Mark hadn't known much about Jim, other than the fact that he almost never shut up. Nodding, Mark felt no need to vocalize his thoughts when he already knew what would come out of the conversation.

"You know, I can't help but ask, what's your deal?" Jim asked, a little too chipper for the earliest of the morning hours.

Furrowing his eyebrows in disbelief, Mark could not believe that someone would dare ask him about his past. He assumed most of them had an idea, and were smart enough to leave him alone about it.

Figuring that Mark was not looking to open up to him in the next century or two, Jim decided he would back off, but not back down. "Okay, so you're gonna be that way. Fine, I'll figure you out eventually, Pav."

Unsure of what to make of Jimmy, Mark walked back over to where the team was.  
Most of the Bostonians were getting competitive playing some type of card game which Mark was not familiar with, while the Minnesotans were fairly quite. Most of them were sleeping in awkward, makeshift positions. Rob McClanahan and Steve Christoff were using Phil Verchota as a cushion. Meanwhile, Buzz and Bah were playing with Mark's guitar, drawing a crowd of observing teammates.

 _"Cathy, I said as we boarded a Greyhound in Pittsburgh_  
 _Michigan seems like a dream to me now_  
 _It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw_  
 _I've gone to look for, America."_

Grunting in frustration, Mark yanked his guitar out of Buzz's hands.

"Hey, I can't sing acapella!" Bah exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

"Yeah, Pav, let them finish the song!" Neal Broten squeaked from the floor, beneath a sleeping Rob's feet.

Looking Buzz in the eyes, Mark decided to loan his most precious item, other than his fishing rod, to the one person he trusted the most. Handing the guitar back to Buzz, he sat down beside Neal, intrigued by the fact that he was finally listening to music rather than playing it.

As Bah began to sing again, Coach Patrick came over to wake the boys up for the umpteenth time. "Come on boys, time to board. Let's hustle!"

The lethargic group of hockey players boarded their aircraft in a sluggish manner, while Mark trudged behind, building up fear. He took his seat next to Bah, and noticed Jimmy already chatting up Buzz across the aisle. Although he could not make out what they were saying, it appeared to be a serious-minded conversation since neither was laughing, or even smiling.

"Hey, Buzzy, what's the deal with Pav?" Jim asked his seat buddy, cautiously glaring between Buzz and Mark.

Eyes widening, Buzz put a finger to his lips and whispered, "Quiet, Jimmy, it's a sensitive topic."

"I don't think quiet is in my vocabulary. But please care to enlighten me on said topic."

"Why are you so curious?"

"Because he seems like he needs help. And I believe I can help him," Jimmy attempted to whisper, which obviously wasn't quiet enough considering he caught the attention of Rob McClanahan and Mark Johnson.

"Who are you guys talking about?" Mark Johnson asked, peeking his head through the gap between headrests.

Closing his book, Rob positioned his head on top of Mark's. "Spill, I am in need of some gossip to engage my cerebellum in something other than how horrid these seats are."

"No way," Buzz rejected, "this is a private conversation, so you two noisy lovers can go ahead and back off."

"Fine, we have better things to talk about anyways."

"Now listen close, Jimmy, because I'm not repeating this. The summer before Pav started at UMD, he was involved in an accident."

"What kind of accident?"

"A hunting one. He lost his best friend, along with his will for words," Buzz shook his head in unrest.

"Are you insinuating what I think you are? Oh gosh. That is terrible," Jim responded, realizing that he might just be able to find someone with whom he could empathize.

"But don't take that the wrong way, alright? Pav is a really nice guy, and he sure as hell wouldn't do anything like that intentionally."

The rest of the plane ride to Minnesota Mark clung to his seat for dear life, praying that the aircraft would not crash.

 _And in the naked light I saw_

 _Ten thousand people, maybe more_

 _People talking without speaking_

 _People hearing without listening_

 _People writing songs that voices never share_

 _And no one dared_

 _Disturb the sound of silence_

It was now 3 A.M., and the team had just arrived at the Minneapolis airport. Digging his fingernails into the armrests for dear life as the plane began landing, Mark shoved a piece of gum, which he'd gotten from Rob, into his mouth.

Glancing to his right, he noticed that Bah was still asleep. Nudging him awake, he yawned and remarked, "Well look at you, Pavey, you survived the plane ride."

Rolling his eyes, Mark grabbed his carry on bag and darted off the plane, to his freedom. He could see all the lights from buildings in the city across the landscape, and it certainly was a lot busier than Flint.

As the boys went to the luggage carousel, Mark was elbowed by someone. Before he could even turn around, Jimmy placed himself in front of Mark. Bracing two hands on his shoulders, Jimmy whispered, "Sit with me on the bus, okay?"

Nodding, Mark wondered why Jim seemed to be so infatuated with him. As he watched Jimmy run off to go bother someone else, Dave Christian ran into his side and knocked the suitcase out of his hand. Grunting, Mark bent down to retrieve it. When he stood up again, he spotted Neal and Dave playing on the carousel. They were actually laying on their teammates' luggage as it spun in a circle around the terminal.

Mark couldn't help but smile and giggle. "Why don't you go on in there with them, since you seem to be enjoying this so much," Buzz chuckled, causing Mark to smirk.

Now, all the boys were amused watching the two pranksters ride the machine round and round. Neal began handing out luggage to the teammate in which it belonged to. "Here you go, Mac, I believe this is yours," Neal smiled, pointing to the bag he was sitting on.

"Alright so get off and give it to me," Rob demanded, following Neal as he spun around on the carousel.

"Hmmm, let me think about it... Nah, I'm good," Neal chuckled, still sitting on Rob's bag as it went around the room.

"Neal, give me the bag!" Rob yelled. "It's frickin' three in the morning, just give me my damn bag!" Rob began chasing Neal as he proceeded on the conveyor belt. The two engaged in a tug of war with Rob's duffle bag, until Rob gave up in frustration. "How is this acceptable behavior?" Rob screamed, causing Craig Patrick to respond,

"I don't see anything, Mac."

Throwing his hands up and glaring at Craig, he waited for Neal to reach the point where he was standing, before jumping on him. Now Rob and Neal were wrestling as the carousel continued to loop, while Dave was hanging out people's bags.

"Thank goodness there's no one else here but us," Buzz whispered.

"Pav, your guitar," Dave called, handing out the guitar towards Mark. "Hurry up!"

Running over to Dave as he was moving, Mark snatched his instrument and prayed that it was not damaged.

Once the debacle had ended, the team found their bus. Mark remembered what Jimmy had said to him, and searched for him once he got on the bus. He had spotted Jim in the back when he began waving. Not wanting any attention drawn to him, Mark scurried to the row where Jimmy was. Sitting down, he waited for Jim to say whatever it was that he felt he needed to.

After approximately five minutes went by silent, Mark whispered, "Well?"

"Wow, you do talk!" Jim exclaimed louder than necessary. "Um, I mean, well what?"

"What is it that you wanted to say?"

"I don't know yet. When it comes to me, I'll let you know," Jim smiled.

Confused, Mark questioned, "Of all the times, this is the one that you chose to be quiet?"

"Not every moment has to be passed with words, Pav. I thought you of all people would know that."

Raising an eyebrow, Mark was surprised by what he was hearing.

"Sometimes words aren't necessary, and it's better to just listen. If we don't listen, then we become self-absorbed and unappreciative. It's best to just take time to enjoy life, because we only have one," Jim remarked, staring out the window.

After another five minutes passed, Jim observed, "Isn't that skyline so pretty?"

"Yeah. It is."

"Reminds me of home," Jim remarked, turning back to Pav, "Just like in that song you play."

Smiling, Mark nodded.

"Alright, let me ask you a question: why do you play music, Pav?"

"Because I like to play music," Mark responded.

"Wrong."

"What? Wrong?" Mark inquired, puzzled.

"Music is your escape from reality," Jim conveyed. "I assume hockey is another one."

Speechless, Mark continued to stare at his seat buddy.

"Look, mine is talking, telling stories, you know? And playing goalie, I forget about everything: my past, my present. I don't even worry about my future."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Mark shook his head.

"Maybe you don't, because you just don't recognize it yet. Listen, Mark, we're a lot more alike than you'd think."

"Yeah, okay," Mark scoffed, rolling his eyes.

Lowering his tone, Jim continued, "I know what it's like to lose someone close to your heart. To feel like there's something you could've done, said, or felt. To believe that it's all your fault, living everyday with guilt. I know, Mark, I really do."

With widening eyes, Mark responded, "I guess you already know my story."

"Yes, I do. So let me tell you mine. My mother passed away when I was sixteen, Mark. Every day I felt like it was my fault, even though I can't cure cancer. As though I could've convinced her not to smoke. I still feel like I should've said more, and I question if I was a good son to her. When it happened, I began to shut my father out of my life, until I realized he was all I had left of my mother," Jim spoke, getting teary-eyed. "So believe me when I tell you, I can empathize with you."

 _Fools, said I, you do not know_

 _Silence like a cancer grows_

 _Hear my words that I might teach you_

 _Take my arms that I might reach you_

 _But my words, like silent raindrops fell_

 _And echoed in the wells of silence_

Turning away from Jim, Mark felt a rush of emotions inside of him.

"And I'm not the only one, either. Mo lost his dad a few years ago. Silky never even had one. Magic's sister has a serious illness, I don't think she speaks at all. I'm sure even guys like Mac have something. We're all the same, Mark. We're broken. But we have each other, and we have our own coping to heal our wounds," Jim comforted his teammate.

"How do you know all that?" Mark inquired.

"Like I said, I talk. A lot," Jim smiled.

"Oh really? I hadn't noticed," Mark giggled, starting to feel as though he was not alone, nor had he ever been.

As Jimmy began to laugh as well, the two shared a moment that was nothing short of miraculous.

"You know, Pav, there's another form of coping that I don't think you even know you're using," Jim pressed, lightly nudging Mark.

"Oh yeah? And what would that be?"

"What I hinted at before, it's what you're notorious for," Jim began.

"Let me guess: being quiet," Mark scoffed.

"No," Jim shook his head, "Not many people know how to listen to the sound of silence."

 _And the people bowed and prayed_

 _To the neon god they made_

 _And the sign flashed out its warning_

 _In the words that it was forming_

 _And the sign said, the words of the prophets_

 _are written on the subway walls_

 _And tenement halls_

 _And whispered in the sounds of silence_


End file.
